


Knife's Edge

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Glove Kink, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Knifeplay, M/M, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Voice Kink, bottom!ferdinand, top!hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Hubert and Ferdinand are finally courting, but Ferdinand wants to know just who Hubert really is—the man he is in the shadows.For Kinktober 2019, Day 3: Knifeplay. Inspired by artwork by @SpiceHya.





	Knife's Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hubert/Ferdinand Knifeplay](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/524729) by SpiceHya. 

> @SpiceHya posted [this incredible knifeplay art](https://twitter.com/SpiceHya/status/1179627362666725376), which is so OBVIOUSLY a prompt DESIGNED for Hubert/Ferdinand, and I couldn't not. I am so sorry for how incredibly horny this is, oh my god, please don't look at me
> 
> (also I promise my next E-rated fic will have an embarrassment of bottom!Hubert, sorry this is not that yet!)

Hubert had warned him that he might be running late to meet with him, but even so, Ferdinand feels an anxious knot in the pit of his stomach as he waits in the Minister of the Imperial Household’s quarters. These idle evening hours together are still new for them; their courtship still a fragile and fleeting thing. He never knows quite what to expect with Hubert: a clandestine journey out into the capital, a quiet evening unwinding over a meal and wine brought up from the palace kitchens, or something else entirely.

He’s rather hopeless, he knows, but it has been a long time coming. They've known each other for years now, but so much of that time was wasted on petty feuding. Yet Ferdinand couldn't help the way his heart hammered whenever Hubert entered a council meeting room, or the way his voice shivered against Ferdinand’s skin whenever he spoke. At least now he’s been given leave to _do_ something with those feelings, that yearning. In many ways, he feels he is only just now getting to know who Hubert truly is when he’s not at Edelgard’s side.

It is a discovery that was exhilarating and frightening.

The door clicks open, and Hubert enters, eyes already searching for him. Ferdinand’s breath catches at the way his expression shifts so drastically. A rare and maddening smile, eyes bright, shoulders soft instead of hunched. It is a good look for him. But Ferdinand has never minded the cold glowers and dark, foreboding presence that Hubert usually commands, either.

“Darling. You're here. So sorry to have kept you waiting.” Hubert unfastens his cloak and jacket, and drapes them over a nearby armchair before moving to stand before Ferdinand. “You're looking radiant as ever.”

Ferdinand, beaming, holds out his hand as Hubert reaches for it, and feels heat rise on his cheeks at the soft kiss Hubert presses to the back of his hand. “I only just arrived myself. I was just finishing up some work for her Majesty.”

“Well. I do hope I'm not keeping you from anything important.” Hubert doesn’t release his hand; strokes his thumb against the underside of Ferdinand’s wrist instead, and the sensation is far more searing than it has any right to be.

“I can think of nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Ferdinand squeezes Hubert's fingers and guides him gently to sit beside him on the divan in Hubert’s parlor. He notices, then, that Hubert is dressed somewhat differently from usual formal uniform. His breeches are much tighter, and the jacket and cloak he removed are solid black—unornamented. His boots appear to be better broken in, with a softer tread. And then those gloves—not the white ones he usually wears. These are black leather, the sort far better at concealing stains.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand asks, trying to keep the sudden tension out of his voice, “what precisely was it you were doing again?”

Hubert ducks his head, dark bangs shielding his face. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He slides one gloved hand along the inside of Ferdinand's thigh before looking back up at him, slight smile on his lips. “All part of my duties to her Majesty.”

Ferdinand's blood hums at the sudden touch; though they have been rather . . . intimate of late, it is not a sensation whose newness he thinks he will tire of anytime soon. “I thought we said no more secrets between us.”

A slow release of breath as Hubert moves closer beside him. Only a handful of candelabras light the room, throwing strange shadows across his pale face—its angular nature accented. Sharpened like a blade.

“Very well.” That voice again, making Ferdinand’s pulse canter. “What is it you wish to know, my dear?” Hubert's hand is caressing, now, though his gaze remains fixed on Ferdinand's, at once both revenant and unsettling.

Ferdinand reaches up to feather his fingers through Hubert's hair, brushing it aside enough so he can kiss one of those sharp cheekbones. Another kiss, while he gathers his nerve—“I wish to know what it is you _really_ do.”

And the little chuckle that rises out of Hubert stirs his blood even more than the touch. “But you do know, _minister_. You’ve overheard, sometimes, the orders I receive.”

“I know you are dispatched to—convince. Bribe. Threaten.” Ferdinand’s voice wavers. “Dispatch.” He presses one hand to Hubert’s chest. “But I’ve never seen you work. I don’t know what it . . . entails.”

Hubert leans closer, and traces the tip of his nose alongside Ferdinand's temple before moving his lips to the shell of his ear. “I fear you won't be able to see me the same way,” he says, voice husky. “It is far from pristine work.”

“I understand that—”

“Do you?” Hubert’s fingertips bite into Ferdinand’s thigh. “I'm not nearly so pure or pleasant as you are. Maybe a divine angel such as yourself shouldn’t be exposed to wicked creatures like me.”

_ Oh. _ Ferdinand bites his lower lip to suppress the shiver such delicious words coax out of him. “P-perhaps that is all the more reason for me to know.”

Hubert brings his other hand around to move the curtain of hair from Ferdinand's neck, even as the first teases higher, just shy of the touch Ferdinand truly craves. With Ferdinand's neck exposed, he scrapes cruel teeth at the point where Ferdinand's jaw meets his ear, the flash of pain sending sparks through Ferdinand’s body.

“I should so hate to soil you thusly, love.”

There is no use concealing his arousal now. Ferdinand's breaths are shallow, and though he aches to turn his head and taste the sweet darkness of Hubert's fine lips, he suspects that Hubert has rather something else in mind. “You don't think I could use a good soiling?”

“Oh, Ferdinand.” One gloved hand fist in Ferdinand's hair now, prickling at his scalp as it pulls, while the other outlines his hardened shaft through his breeches. “It would be a distinct pleasure to debauch you.”

“Then tell me,” Ferdinand breathes.

Hubert's mouth swirls against his throat, an unbalancing mix of lip and teeth and tongue. His breaths are thick now, heated; they prick at Ferdinand's skin like needles.

“How about I show you?”

Ferdinand swallows, hard. His breeches are unbearably tight now, and the sting at his scalp is delicious as it grows. “How do you mean to do that?”

“Easy enough.”

And then Hubert releases him—slides off the divan entirely, standing, smirking. Gesturing toward the inner room of his chambers. Ferdinand whimpers at the sudden loss of touch.

“Go on. Why don’t you step inside? I’ll join you momentarily.” His gaze rakes over the length of Ferdinand’s body. “Though I think you might be more comfortable if you were wearing a lot less.”

Ferdinand stands on wobbly legs. “Is that an—order, minister?”

Hubert only laughs. “When I give you an order, you’ll know it.”

Ferdinand inhales sharply at that.

“Oh. And if at any point you wish for me to stop,” Hubert says, “just say . . . Enbarr. Understood?”

Ferdinand can only nod, no longer trusting his voice. Spine stiff, he makes his way into the inner rooms.

Hubert’s rooms are sparse, compared to other suites in the palace; a fireplace, a writing desk, a modest bed. A single window that looks over a densely shrouded portion of the inner gardens. They’ve only made love once here, before; Ferdinand’s own living space is considerably more opulent. Not that they’ve—well. It _is_ all very new, and each evening spent in Hubert’s company brings a new surprise.

Ferdinand shucks his own jacket, and unbuttons his vest with unsteady fingers. He doesn’t quite know what to expect. Their first time was hasty, eager, a bit messy if he’s being honest. Ferdinand does tend to get ahead of himself, and he was so anxious to please Hubert he didn’t perhaps take the proper care with him he should have. (_I don’t think I’ll be joining you for any horseback rides anytime soon, _he distinctly recalls Hubert saying.) Since then, they’ve resolved to a steadier pace—sometimes a torturously slow one, Hubert lavishing praise and attention across every inch of him before he even dares let things progress.

But this feels altogether different. Ferdinand loves everything about him, everything they’ve done together—and yet those few short commands Hubert issued sounded so natural coming from his lips that it’s like a bow being drawn in Ferdinand’s belly. Goodness. Perhaps this isn’t how he should be responding to the threat of Her Majesty’s shadow. But he’ll be damned if his body seems to understand that.

He eases out of his riding boots and then plucks the pin from his tie—

Two arms wrap around him from nowhere—one at the narrow of his waist, pinning his arms to his sides, while the other yanks the tie pin from his hand and presses its sharp point underneath his chin. “Don’t move,” Hubert’s voice growls from behind him.

Ferdinand knows, objectively, that he would be terrified had this happened anywhere else, with any_one_ else. But he knows the terse angles of Hubert’s arms; his dark, spicy scent. That voice that terrified him even as it aroused him ever since their Academy days. And Hubert’s closeness at his back—he can’t help but roll his hips back against him, needy for his touch.

The tip of the pin digs into his skin, threatening to pierce it, as Hubert tightens his grasp.

“I thought I gave you an order, _Ferdinand_.”

Ferdinand stops with a pout. “Well, you have me cornered, I suppose. Is this the part where you’d kill me?”

“It depends, beautiful.”

Hubert tosses the pin out of reach without letting loose of Ferdinand. A flick of his wrist—and a much sturdier, more wicked-looking blade slides from his sleeve. Still keeping Ferdinand’s arms pinned, he maneuvers the other hand higher, so it’s at his chest, now, then uses the blade to run its flat end against Ferdinand’s cheek. The cold touch of metal is too much against his heightened senses; he lets out a soft moan.

“Sometimes,” Hubert purrs, right in his ear, “killing is a messy way to go about things. Too many questions. Sometimes you just need someone to _comply_.”

“O-oh,” Ferdinand breathes. He feels wound too tight; the thought of Hubert toying with his food like this is a little too vivid, too—everything. Filthy and delightful and wrong and so very, very much what he needs.

“It would be a true shame to have to slit that long, lovely throat of yours. But I will if I must.” He twists the knife so the hooked point grazes against Ferdinand’s throat, just beneath his jaw. “It can be quick or slow. Catching the jugular—right here—”

The knife skates against Ferdinand’s pulse point, and he can feel his vein throbbing. His whole _body_ is throbbing, attenuated to the sound of Hubert’s voice and the violence coiled up in that blade’s kiss.

“And then rake it across. Like carving a smile.”

The blade ghosts over Ferdinand’s throat, one side to the other. He digs his fingers against the sides of his thighs, unable to grab onto anything else; he’s afraid to move too much, to invite that blade to slip, but he’s feeling so _much_ and Hubert is so much as well—

“Mm. Yes. I think you’re beginning to understand now.” Hubert nips at the outer curve of his ear, and Ferdinand tenses to keep himself from crying out, from moving overly, in response. “The safest thing—the only way out of this—is for you to do exactly as I say.”

“Yes,” Ferdinand whispers. Beneath his loose blouse, he feels a tendril of sweat roll down his back.

“You can do that for me, sweet little Ferdinand?”

“Yes,” he grits out louder now. He’ll do anything, anything Hubert asks—he just wants to be touched, to be told _what_ to do, in that soothing yet dangerous tone that’s left him tangled up and beside himself with want for _years_—

“I’m so glad,” Hubert says, “that we can come to amenable terms.” His arms tighten, and the blade feels dangerously close to breaking skin. “I’m going to release you now. But you’re going to do exactly as I say.”

Ferdinand nods, and slowly, cruelly, Hubert’s arms unwind from around him, leaving a cold void. Ferdinand takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. His erection is trapped painfully now within his breeches, but he supposes it’s a mixed blessing. The slightest touch at this point is likely to undo him entirely.

“Well done. Now. Walk toward the window.”

“Toward the—” Ferdinand sputters, before biting down on his tongue.

“I thought you said you were ready to obey?” And, oh, he can _hear_ that smarmy grin in Hubert’s voice. “Do it. Press your hands to the glass.”

Ferdinand mentally reviews the emperor’s schedule, but he’s _fairly_ certain there isn’t a garden party or anything of the sort this evening. And there is a rather thick copse of trees just before Hubert’s window. But _still_. The indecency of it all.

He loves it.

Ferdinand does as commanded, and leans forward over the casing, just enough to press his palms flat to cold glass. Beyond, the courtyard is inky with night, only distant golden flecks on the far side of the gardens revealing the other faces of the palace. Well. He supposes he can live with that.

In the window’s reflection, he sees the indistinct shadow approach him, then feels the gloved hand at his hip. Ferdinand sighs from the slide of leather on his skin—then yelps at the sudden glance of cold steel. Hubert cuts straight through the side of his breeches and shoves them crudely down Ferdinand’s thighs.

“My pants!” Ferdinand cries. “They had perfectly good buttons in the front—”

“Of course they did.” Hubert bites at his shoulder blade, teeth blunted through the thin fabric of Ferdinand’s blouse. “But I don’t want to touch your cock.”

Ferdinand’s muscles tense as if struck, the words both unfairly lewd and cruel all at once. “You . . . don’t?”

“This isn’t about your pleasure,” Hubert says, gloved palms running over the sturdy curves of Ferdinand’s ass. “It’s about me. Having you. Although . . .” He bites Ferdinand’s shoulder again, firmer, sharper this time. “If I can’t make you come from my cock, from my voice, alone—then what good am I, really?”

“Oh, Goddess,” Ferdinand whimpers.

“Doubt she’s listening.”

Then there is a dribble of cold liquid dripping down the seam of his ass, and a rough, leather-clad finger shoving crudely into him—

“Fuck,” Ferdinand says. “A little warning—”

“_I_ think,” Hubert, snarls, “you’re getting a little too mouthy for someone in your position.” The finger thrusts deeper, grazing deep inside him with a sensation that makes Ferdinand’s toes curl. “From now on, the only thing I want to hear is how much you’re enjoying yourself, being utterly at my mercy.”

Ferdinand swallows and nods; presses his forehead to the cool glass. As long as he doesn’t have to be _totally_ silent—that’s never worked out well for them so far.

A second finger joins the first, too thick, too rough despite the cold oil. But Hubert’s pressing, pressing, curving his fingers just so, and Goddess, can’t Ferdinand _hear_ himself, his ragged gasps as he’s teased apart, the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. He wants to beg. He’s only had Hubert inside him a few times, but it’s always been more than enough to remind him how worth the effort it is to yield to him, as much as he does love the feel of the slender man pinned beneath him, face under his, so primed for kissing.

But this—this is something else entirely, this rough, ravenous, dangerous man behind him, one who kills and poisons and blackmails and torments in the name of the empire, _their_ empire—

“Oh, Ferdinand.” Hubert’s fingers thrust hard into him and he cries out, careening against the glass. “Flames, how I love to fuck you. Have you completely at my mercy.”

Ferdinand chokes back a moan, and the fingers are gone.

Then he feels the blade. Scraping, roughly, against the front of his thigh. Up his stomach. Over his blouse. Along the sharp ridges of his collarbones. And Ferdinand is so hard, he’s dripping, he’s _aching_, but when that blade comes to rest at his throat and that other hand nudges up one of his thighs until he props his foot on the windowsill—_Yes_, he thinks, this just might be enough.

“Be very still,” Hubert murmurs at his ear. “I’d so hate to have to cut you now.”

Ferdinand clenches his jaw to scream, close-lipped, as Hubert thrusts into him.

He shudders as he seats himself fully in Ferdinand, and the tears spill down Ferdinand’s cheeks, now—the strain of trying to be so good, so still. The ache to be touched. The threat of the blade, now digging into his throat. And the press, Goddess, the press of his love inside of him, scraping him raw, setting his nerves on fire. “Fuck,” he manages to wheeze, and even that is enough to send the blade on a painful bob against his throat, but that, too, is its own agonized blessing. “Fuck.”

Hubert eases partway out of him, adjusts his grip on one thigh, and thrusts into him with force, until Ferdinand’s wracked with another sob. “You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “You may make it out of this yet.”

Gradually, he begins to thrust, rhythmic, Ferdinand biting at his lower lip to keep from crying out with his whole body. “Such a gorgeous creature,” Hubert says. “Lovely, sun-kissed skin. It’d be a shame to mar it.” Then he bites, hard, onto the other side of Ferdinand’s neck, tendon and sinew shifting under his teeth as Ferdinand wails. As pleasure spikes through him, molten and fierce. “Well. To mar it permanently, anyway.”

“Please,” Ferdinand whines.

“Please? You think I’m interested in showing mercy? You asked to meet the man I am in the shadows, and here he is. Just think, Ferdinand.” He punctuates Ferdinand’s name with a snarl, hips snapping hard up against Ferdinand’s ass, and Ferdinand swallows another cry. “This is the man who watched you for years, wanted you for almost as long, dreamed of making you his own. And here you are. Mine. Tortured. Begging. Fucked.”

“Hubert, fuck—”

“Is that what you want to hear? That you’re my prey?” The knife turns perilously sharp with another snap of Hubert’s hips. “Will that make you come, you filthy, soiled thing?”

Ferdinand’s whole body shudders, and it’s like a thunderstorm breaking wide. There’s hot pain at his throat and dull ache deep inside him and searing, torturous bliss as he comes, untouched, unnurtured. But it’s what he wanted, it’s what he _craved_, it’s everything he knew Hubert to be and so much more, and he is so drunk on that sensation he scarcely feels the heat spilling inside him, scarcely hears Hubert’s own cry save for the way it echoes in him down to his bones.

And then he’s limp, slumped against cool glass, Hubert’s weight pressing down on him, one arm at Ferdinand’s waist as the other goes limp and the blade clatters to the ground.

They stay like this for a long minute, both panting, grasping for air. Then Hubert turns him around to face him, Ferdinand’s back to the window, and draws him into a hungry, artless kiss.

“Ferdinand,” he breathes, somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and all Ferdinand can do is smile and try his best to kiss him back, but he’s been wrung dry. He drapes his arms around Hubert’s shoulders and never wants to let go.

“Flames, Ferdie. That was . . .”

“Mmmm,” Ferdinand mumbles, and if it sounds too much like _I love you_, he’s too tired, too happy, to care.

Hubert kisses him once more, quick, before scooping him up into his arms. Somehow, they manage to undress each other, a tedious, laborious process as they stagger into Hubert’s bed. It’s too narrow, really, for them both, but Ferdinand’s latched all his limbs around this monster he’s in love with, and refuses to let go.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand mumbles, mouth burrowing at Hubert’s throat. “I just—needed to know.”

Hubert kisses Ferdinand’s forehead as his eyes flutter shut. “As did I, love. As did I.”

As Ferdinand swallows, he can still feel the indentation on his throat. A pleasant reminder, a stark one, of just who and what he loves. But some monsters, he can live with. Some darkness, even he craves.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


End file.
